They stood on fields where riches grew,
Yet saw no worth in soil or dew.
Their hands held earth, yet let it slip,
A fate resigned to time’s tight grip.

The trees they felled, the land they sold,
For coins that withered, dimmed, and cold.
Their sweat was spent, their toil was tossed,
Yet none could count the wealth they lost.

The rivers sang, the hills stood tall,
Yet hunger cast its endless pall.
They bartered roots for fleeting bread,
And left no path for those who tread.

The land was vast, the sky was wide,
Yet still, they shrank and turned inside.
They saw not homes, nor crops, nor trade,
Just idle dreams that bent and frayed.

Their children walked on barren ground,
No echoes left, no claim, no sound.
Their legacy—a ghost of stone,
A kingdom lost, a throne unknown.

The earth still hums their wasted chance,
A requiem of circumstance.
For wealth is vision’s faithful twin,
Yet blind men let their fate grow thin.

The graves now whisper in the dust,
Of soil betrayed and broken trust.
For those who fail to sow their seed,
Leave only hunger’s hands to feed.

And so we kneel where they once stood,
Their story carved in squandered wood.
For what is land when none can claim?
A birthright lost, a nameless name.